


jesus christ, i'm so blue all the time

by theweightofus



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (i guess), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, M/M, Pining, richie gets a boyfriend and eddie pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofus/pseuds/theweightofus
Summary: ‘how’re things going there in the big apple?’ richie asks, as he usually does during their calls.this is how things are going,eddie wants to say.i’m in love with my best friend who’s currently in los angeles and dating someone else. actually, i don’t even know whether we’re best friends anymore, since i’ve been avoiding him for months because talking to him knowing i can’t kiss him is fucking difficult. i live in an apartment which doesn’t feel like home and my job is stressing me out and i want to quit but i feel like it’s one of those stable things in my life that my therapist says are good for me. oh yeah, did i mention i’m seeing a therapist to talk about thirty something years of childhood trauma? my ex-wife hates me and her sister says i’ve ruined their lives. and i’m having a sexuality crisis. i don’t know whether i’ve always been gay or i’m bisexual or maybe it’s just you i’ve always been in love with and i have no idea how get rid of this feeling everytime i think about you.‘same old, richie’ he says.or, eddie gets a therapist. richie gets a boyfriend.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128





	jesus christ, i'm so blue all the time

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to have a completely different vibe but i like how it turned out 
> 
> inspired by: phoebe bridgers's latest album, st.vincent's "new york" and my therapist sessions. 
> 
> title by phoebe bridgers's funeral

it’s raining and it’s gray and eddie’s wet. it’s eight a.m. on a saturday morning and he’s running towards his apartment, trying not to slip on the sidewalk. his lungs are burning and his legs are aching. he’s got back to jogging again recently and today he’s pushed too far. maybe it was the impeding dark clouds over his head, or the particularly tiring day yesterday at work, or the wish to burn the calories of the chinese takeout he ate yesterday. or maybe it was the message sent by beverly on the group chat, the screenshot of a tweet by TMZ titled _Comedian Richie Tozier Spotted Holding Hands with Reality Star Andrew Meeks!_ , a link to the website, the glance of two shots side by side, both picturing richie walking in los angeles, one hand holding a starbucks cup and other entangled in that of a younger man, tall and muscular, sunglasses perched on his head, a smile plastered on his face, watching richie talk.

 _richie!!!!_ beverly’s message read, _why did you not tell us?_

her text was followed by the others’, mike’s _you guys look good! :)_ , ben’s _at least you have someone else to annoy now!_ , bill’s being a string of emojis—a red heart, two boys kissing, party poppers.

stan did not send anything. he called eddie instead.

‘did you know?’ he asked as soon as eddie answered.

eddie was sitting on a stool over the kitchen aisle in his small new york apartment, one he found as soon as he told myra he wanted to get a divorce. there was a box of lo mein in front of him, chopsticks abandoned beside it.

‘no’ he answered immediately, gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, trying to stable himself although he sat immobile on the stool.

that was a new thing he was trying to do, on his therapist’s suggestion. she was an old woman with kind, green eyes whom he met every other thursday at six p.m in williamsburg. she owned a small bohemian studio at the first floor of a red-brick building, walls adorned with black and white photos shot in africa by some photographer whose name eddie did not remember, but was sure mike liked.

‘eddie, next time you feel like the world is moving too fast’ she told him two weeks ago, glancing at him over the glasses perched on her nose, ‘try to stabilize. try to find your balance point. do you think you can try that?’

so that’s what he does. he tries to find something to lean onto. he tries to touch something stable, tries to breathe and find solace in the idea that some things are just _there_ , they do not move, they do not change.

‘i think bill knew’ stan said. ‘he sees richie every week, he must have known something’

because that’s how it is now: richie and bill in los angeles, after at least fifteen years of living in the same city and not knowing, not remembering each other. selfies of the two of them in the group chat, either purposely out at some bar together, beers in their hands, or meeting accidentally at some flashy event. stan in atlanta, the scars on his wrists slowly, but never completely fading, patty a background voice in their calls. ben and beverly somewhere, sometimes at ben’s holiday house in vermont, sometimes at beverly’s small but luxurious apartment in manhattan, or traveling on a jet to someplace exotic. mike in florida, drinking piña coladas and getting tanned, grinning at his phone’s front camera, one the losers had got him for his last birthday that he uses to post aesthetically pleasing pictures on his instagram with vaguely motivating captions. eddie in new york, a divorce ready to be finalized, a small apartment in the financial district, four fixed appointments every month, two with the kind woman in williamsburg and the other with a physical therapist slightly younger than him, a tall man with blonde hair and a stubble who’s not into small talk.

stan’s voice was followed by an heavy silence, a question hovering above eddie’s head, an unspoken _are you okay?_

because that’s how it is now: stan calling eddie once a week, small talk followed by silence, leading to bigger questions eddie tries to answer as earnestly as possible, something suggested by his therapist when he had told her about his friendship with stanley, his inability to be emotionally vulnerable in front of his friends, the result being words spilling out like vomit all at once when drinking too much, stan hearing eddie’s confession on a wednesday he was visiting for work and stayed at his apartment, empty beer cans on the coffe table, eddie sobbing and stan’s hand on his shoulder, one of those stable things in eddie’s life.

‘how long do you think they’ve been together?’ eddie almost whispered, as if there was someone else in the apartment with him.

on the other end of the line, stan sighed. ‘i don’t know. but it can’t be long, can it?’ and then ‘have you heard him recently?’

eddie had to repress a bitter laugh. ‘are you really asking?’

because that’s how it is now: eddie and richie on opposite sides of the country, communicating only through the group chat, richie calling every once in a while as if nothing’s wrong, trying to find a sense of normalcy, unaware of eddie’s silent pleas, pushing his patience like old times, eddie falling into the trap of richie’s witty remarks each time, overanalyzing their conversations in the following days, picturing stan’s hand on his shoulder, leaning over the kitchen aisle, trying to control the ache in his chest.

he manages to get home, wet but safely. he’s welcomed by the comforting warmth of his apartment, standing still for a moment, trying to find a balance, before stripping down naked and getting into the shower.

once he’s wrapped in a soft towel and sitting on his bed, he opens the group chat, sixteen messages left unread after his _are we sure the kid’s not being held hostage?_ sent before going to bed the night before.

**Richie (11:29)** mannn

 **Richie (11:30)** why do i look so old

 **Stanley (11:45)** Because you’re holding hands with a fucking kid, Richie. Is he fifteen or something?

 **Richie (11:47)** stan the man

are you jealous

 **Stanley (11:49)** Jealous? I’m feeling bad for the kid, actually.

 **Ben (11:58)** Richie why didnt you tell us!?

 **Ben (00:00)** BTW famous birthdays says he is 29

 **Richie (00:04)** ben are u stalking my boyf

 **Beverly (00:05)** boyfriend??????

bill did you know

 **Bill (00:09)** Maybe

 **Richie (00:13)** sorry my fault

were just hanging out dont worry

its not like im marrying him or smth

 **Mike (07:04)** I can’t believe all my kids are growing up. Who’s the next, Eddie?

he looks at mike’s text for far too long, replies _surely you would not find out through fucking paparazzi shots_ and locks his phone.

he puts his head in his hands and shouts ‘fuck!’ to his empty bedroom.

he tries to keep his mind occupied for as long as possible: he slowly caresses lotion on his skin, making sure it all gets absorbed before standing in his boxers in front of the wardrobe, scanning the entirety of it and choosing more carefully than necessary what to wear, settling on a dark blue polo and some old jeans which he should actually get hemmed as they’re a bit too long. myra used to hem things for him and, before that, his mother. he’s never actually bothered to learn, but he pretty fucking should now.

he moves to the kitchen and stares at the inside of his fridge for a solid minute until he ends up ona soy yogurt and organic granola for breakfast. he still has some coffee in the cupboard but he sets for a peppermint tea.

he finishes his food and washes the dishes in the sink. then he opens his laptop, reads some articles from the new york times absently, tries to ignore his work e-mails accumulating on his google account and finally finds himself googling andrew meeks.

he does not have a wikipedia page, but google tells him he’s a reality star, he’s 29 years old, 6’1”, and he’s starred in something called _getting busy with the angels_ which, he finds out, is a trashy reality show vaguely inspired by _the hills_ about three twenty-something nobodies working as personal assistants to bigger stars.

he looks at pictures of andrew. shots of him with one of the kardashians, him interviewing celebs at the VMAs, him holding hands with richie, a picture of him kissing a girl on the cheek, her acting surprised, flower crowns on both of their heads, leading to an article from last year titled _all the celebs at audra philip’s birthday party_. audra’s birthday was in may, he thinks, a text from bill inviting all of them, saying _audra would be happy of having you there_ , empty promises by eddie, who stayed home zooming on richie’s face on a selfie bill had sent of the two of them with the birthday girl and mike, the only loser outside of los angeles who had managed to go. he wonders if that’s how they met. it’s september now.

he closes the laptop abruptly and decides to clean the bathroom.

..

he finds a missed call from richie as soon as he steps out his therapist’s office.

he considers calling him once he’s home, or even just not calling him at all, waiting for him to try contacting him again, but the unforeseeability of it makes him shudder. he decides to press on richie’s name once he’s started his car, hoping that having his mind occupied with something else will make his heart ache less.

richie picks up after three rings. ‘eduardo!’ he cries out.

‘hey, rich’ eddie replies, too softly for his wishes.

‘how’re things going there in the big apple?’ richie asks, as he usually does during their calls.

 _this is how things are going_ , eddie wants to say. _i’m in love with my best friend who’s currently in los angeles and dating someone else. actually, i don’t even know whether we’re best friends anymore, since i’ve been avoiding him for months because talking to him knowing i can’t kiss him is fucking difficult. i live in an apartment which doesn’t feel like home and my job is stressing me out and i want to quit but i feel like it’s one of those stable things in my life that my therapist says are good for me. oh yeah, did i mention i’m seeing a therapist to talk about thirty something years of childhood trauma? my ex-wife hates me and her sister says i’ve ruined their lives. and i’m having a sexuality crisis. i don’t know whether i’ve always been gay or i’m bisexual or maybe it’s just you i’ve always been in love with and i have no idea how get rid of this feeling everytime i think about you._

‘same old, richie’ he says.

richie hums on the other end of the line, ‘still working at that boring shit?’.

eddie snorts. ‘you mean the insurance firm? yes, richie. not all of us can waste people’s money doing shitty stand-ups’.

richie gasps, feigning offence. ’hey!’ he protests. ‘i don’t only do stand-up now, you know. i act, too. people get HBO to have my show as a background noise while they fuck their tinder date’.

eddie can’t help but huffs out a soft laugh. there’s a red light. he hits the brakes.

‘are you home?’ richie asks.

‘why? are you going to ask me what i’m wearing next?’. as soon as the words come out of his mouth, he regrets saying them. for a moment it’s just the same old feeling, wondering whether richie can sense something, whether his feelings can be intercepted through a quick rebuttal. but now there’s something even worse, the thought of richie holding hands with someone, the possibility that saying this stuff is not okay anymore.

but richie just laughs, much more that what the words deserve. ‘i could never do that to your mom, eds’.

eddie feels his stomach contracting. he's silent for a moment, before someone behind furiously honks at him. he suddenly notices that the light has turned green.

‘yeah, i’m moving, asshole!’ he shouts, even though the driver can’t hear him, and starts the car again.

richie is laughing again.

‘the fuck you’re laughing at?’ eddie asks, a note of irritation in his voice, one that richie is accustomed to. he thinks about the way the interns at the firm reacts whenever he uses the voice. their gaze at the floor, a hushed ‘yes, sir’, the brief guilt he feels after.

‘nothing, man’ richie says. ‘just got this image in my head of you getting that cute frowning face’.

‘shut up’ he answers too quickly. he’s glad richie can’t see him, because he feels himself blushing. ‘at least i don’t have your ugly face’, he says, earning a chuckle from richie.

‘how are things in l.a.?’ he asks after a moment of silence. he doesn’t actually want to know. he dreads the answer, dreads the idea of richie talking about andrew meeks.

but richie doesn’t mention him at all. he starts telling eddie about getting a fitness trainer for his next project, about trying to drink celery juice every morning and giving up after three days. he whispers gossips about celebrities eddie doesn’t know the face of, makes some dirty jokes at eddie’s dead mother’s expenses, pulls his strings a bit more, until eddie tells him he’s reached home.

‘have a good evening, richie’ eddie tells him.

‘you too, spaghetti’ richie answers. ‘don’t be a stranger’.

..

the same day his divorce is finalized, he attends his last physical therapy’s session.

tom, the physical therapist, is a little more chattier than usual. he looks at eddie through his short, light eyelashes and slips a piece of paper at him before he gets out of the door. there’s the name of a bar scribbled on it in clear and blocky handwriting. _tonight at 9_.

he meets him at a bar in brooklyn, a dimly lit place with a familiar atmosphere, groups of friends scattered around. tom is sitting on a barstool over the counter, a glass of what eddie assumes is whiskey on the rocks in front of him.

eddie finds out that tom is not the type to make small talks at all: he thought it was something to do with professionalism but it turns out he just says things when it’s necessary. they go back to his place, a ten-minutes walk from the bar, their arms touching, a light breeze hitting his face.

‘i’ve never done anything like this’ eddie whispers once they’re inside, once he’s on tom’s couch and he can feel tom’s breath on his face, their mouths just few inches apart.

‘we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to’ tom replies. ‘just tell me what you’re comfortable with’.

he finds himself inside tom a while later, small huffs and groans coming from both men, a new feeling inside his chest, hands touching tom’s chest and broad shoulders.

once he’s in the uber returning home and he’s staring at the outside world, guilt starts drowning him. he thinks about myra and their sexual history, the coldness of it all, the effort he had to make to reach climax, the way they both scrambled to wash themselves off after. he thinks about richie, resenting himself for feeling guilt over him. he can’t help but imagine richie in bed, how his broad shoulders must look, his naked body hovering over him, richie thrusting inside of him, sweat and skin mixing together. he wonders if he does that with andrew, whether he cuddles him after, is he the big spoon? he probably is, eddie thinks, while he finds himself crying on the passenger seat of a toyota corolla, the uber driver quiet next to him, a song by st. vincent in the background.

..

he tells about the hookup to his therapist as soon as he sees her two days after. he imagined long talks about it, but she simply asks. ‘how did it feel?’

‘good’ he says, after a moment of silence. ‘new, but… good’

she just hums in response and gets back to something they talked about the week before.

he thinks about telling stan in the days after, but when they talk to each other, he decides against it, imagines stan’s reaction, a sort of pity, knowing tom was just a lousy, temporary replacement for richie. he ends up telling beverly on a friday. she’s finally back in new york and has invited him to dinner at a flashy place in the upper east side that eddie can imagine she and ben at, dressed in elegant and tasteful clothes, grinning at each other, having regular dinner dates like settled adults, ben holding beverly’s hand over the table.

he’s just finished telling her about what he got to keep after the divorce when she suddenly asks, ‘and how’s the single life, babe?’, in that motherly voice that she used to use when they were kids, when she would find eddie in a disastrous state behind a dumpster and they would just sit together for hours and beverly would listen to eddie talk about his mother, her hand on his bare knee.

‘i-uh’ eddie begins, taking a sip of the red wine in his glass, trying to stable himself by gripping it harder, ‘i hooked up with someone last week’.

she opens her mouth slightly, raises her eyebrow, surprised. ‘eddie! that’s so nice to hear!’ she exclaims. ‘was it just a fling or are you going out with her?’

instead of answering the question, eddie says ‘he—he is a he’. his grip tightens.

‘oh’ beverly answers. ‘i didn’t know that—’

‘it’s new’ eddie quickly interrupts her. ‘i’m just—i’m just trying things out.’

‘does richie know?’ she asks, big blue eyes staring at him over the centrepiece between them.

‘why, because he’s gay?’ eddie replies, more snarkily than intended.

beverly seems to sense the tone of his voice and waves her hands in defence. ‘no! no!’ she exclaims. ‘richie cares about you, you know’.

eddie wonders if she knows that he and richie haven’t talked one-on-one since the call after his therapist’s session three weeks ago.

‘have you met _him_?’ he asks before he can stop himself.

beverly opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. it’s the first time since derry that eddie has seen her so unsure of speaking. ‘he told me a bit about him last week’ she settles on in the end. ‘he sounds nice. but i don’t think it’s that serious’.

eddie frowns. ‘they wear matching clothes’ he scoffs. he thinks about the photos he saw the other day of the two of them, another TMZ article titled _Tozier and New Beau Andrew Meeks Spotted Wearing Matching Outfit and Having Lunch_ , richie and the barely shorter man both dressed in flannel shirts, entering a cafe in west hollywood, eating pasta, andrew laughing at something richie said.

‘you know richie’. beverly shrugs. ‘he probably thought it was funny’.

‘whatever’ he says, getting the wine glass to his lips again. he reaches out to the bottle but notices it’s empty. ‘can we get another?’.

..

he finds himself in a bar two days later, sipping a vodka soda and trying not to think about the selfie richie posted on instagram, a picture of him and andrew in silly couple costumes for audra and bill’s birthday party.

he thinks about richie’s hands on his, sat on a chair next to his hospital bed in derry, bags under his eyes. he thinks about richie helping him walk for the first time, ‘it’s okay eds, i’m right here’, going back and forth from the inn to the hospital, bringing eddie’s necessities, ignoring calls from his manager. _you’re my best friend_ , he said, big dumb eyes behind his dirty glasses, _and sonia would never forgive me if i let something happen to you_.

he thinks about comfortable silence between them, richie’s hand on his, his thumb caressing his skin, words unsaid, richie trying to tell him something everyday, one minute before the end of visiting hours, _it’s nothing, i’ll tell you tomorrow_ , eddie getting better, myra coming to get him despite the protests, richie hugging him tightly and going back to l.a., myra smothering him at home.

he thinks about quiet conversations with richie on the phone, at forty and at thirteen, hushed whispers trying not to wake up someone, his mother once, myra now, silly texts on the phone, on their individual chat, richie’s coming out, first to his friends and then to everyone, eddie’s heart catching in his throat, googling _new york divorce lawyers_. the guilt right after, telling myra, her convincing him to stay, shutting down the proceedings, starting them again, hotel rooms before finding a decent apartment, calling richie at midnight to hear his jokes, to distract himself from the thoughts invading his mind.

he thinks about richie’s last trip to new york five months ago, talks of the california sun, terrible shirts, richie’s razor on his bathroom sink, smoking pot with him, staring at him and having to muster all his energy not to reach out and connect their lips.

he ends up going home with someone, a man named _robert_ who asks eddie to finger him and then blows him. he gets a taxi at three a.m., makes small talk with the driver while he tries not to think of richie. once he’s shut the entrance door to his apartment, his phone starts vibrating. he frowns when he sees that it’s richie, wonders why he would call him when it’s midnight in l.a.

‘richie?’ he asks tentatively.

there’s a long silence on the other end of the line, but eddie can feel richie’s breathing, disturbed noise in the background, someone chatting in the distance.

‘i thought you’d be asleep’ richie replies, his words slurred.

‘are you drunk?’ eddie asks immediately. he sits down on the couch.

richie hiccups. ‘maybe’

he feels at a loss for words, naked somehow, wonders if richie can sense what he just did, that he smells of another man, that he left himself be touched the way he wants to be touched by richie himself.

‘why are you awake?’ richie asks.

‘i could ask you the same thing’

there’s a snort. ‘i’m drunk’ he replies. ‘went to a bar. argued with andrew’

eddie wants so badly to say something, but he finds himself unable to speak. he wants to scream. he wants to wreck his apartment. he digs his nail on the armrest to his left. he can the soft leather getting scratched but he can’t bring himself to care.

he’s mad at richie. he wants to tell him that he’s bad, that he hates him in this moment, that he just wants to scream at him to stay away.

he doesn’t know how much time passes before richie is talking again. ‘eddie?’

‘i’m still here’ eddie responds, his nails still clutching at the sofa.

‘you’re my favourite person in the whole world, you know’ richie says, his tone softer than before, his words still slurred, the sound of someone’s laugh far from him, a long honk outside eddie’s window.

he hates richie. he hates that richie’s able to just say things like this, to be so soft with him, to show care and caution without thinking about it twice. he hates that richie’s in l.a. with a boyfriend while his _friend_ is in new york thinking about him while he fucks other people, feeling guilty after, while richie can just get drunk somewhere and call eddie for solace.

‘i was getting laid’ he says abruptly. ‘that’s why i’m awake. i just came back from someone’s place’.

there’s silence again. another series of laughter, an ambulance somewhere distant in the city.

it’s eddie who breaks the silence, who can’t stand the thought of richie somewhere on the other side of the country. ‘i should go. goodnight, richie’. before richie can answer, he hangs up.

he sends a text to bill immediately after, asking him to check on richie, and then he goes to bed.

..

he doesn’t hear from richie. bill texts him in the morning, assuring him richie went home safe. he tells nobody about the call.

..

richie is still dating andrew. he posts a picture on twitter of him wearing an apron, cooking something in what eddie assumes is richie’s kitchen.

they haven’t talked for two weeks now—eddie knows it should be him calling richie, but can’t bring himself to, feels like it would tip him over the edge, make him lose balance. he’s never been the one to make the first move, between him and richie. he was never the one who had to say sorry.

he remembers him and richie at ten, play-fighting, richie accidentally hurting him with his elbow, richie at his side with an ice pack asking eddie for forgiveness. he remembers richie at twelve, teasing eddie during class, getting them detention, being extremely kind to eddie afterwards, eddie who got grounded for two weeks and talked to richie from his window when the other boy came before dinner.

stan knows something happened. he never says it explicitly, but eddie knows he and bill talk and can’t imagine bill not telling him about drunk richie and eddie’s text. he wonders what richie tells him. stan never asks him of richie and eddie does not mention him.

he manages to see bev the days she’s in new york. she always hugs him tight and smells of lavender. she never mentions richie either, but eddie’s sure she knows about the call, knows they talk regularly.

‘he misses you, you know’ she tells him one night, while they’re sprawled on her couch, ben asleep with his head resting on her legs. he doesn’t say whom she’s talking about, but eddie knows. ‘he doesn’t understand what’s happening’.

eddie feels uneasy behind her gaze. ‘nothing’s happening’ he replies, not even trying to sound convincing.

she gives him a stern look. ‘ _eddie_ ’.

he frowns, suddenly feeling angry. it’s something he has been feeling a lot lately: anger. he feels it boiling inside of him often, and it’s not that type of anger he gets when someone at work does something stupid, or someone honks at him while driving. it’s the type of anger he got when he was thirteen, the type that made him speechless for a moment and then blurt out everything one second after, the one that richie could somehow handle, bickering with him until they were both satisfied.

‘did you know he called me while drunk?’ he scoffs. ‘he had a discussion with _andrew_ and then he called me’. he finds richie’s boyfriend’s name coming out of him in a spiteful tone, as if it was andrew he was mad with, as if it was andrew’s fault that richie has a boyfriend and eddie’s heart aches.

beverly raises an eyebrow. ’so? what’s wrong with that?’ she asks, and it’s such a simple but reasonable question that eddie feels his face getting red, feels stupid under her gaze.

he wants to say something. he wants to say _bev, i’m in love with him and it’s eating me up, i can’t even say it out loud, i can’t even tell my therapist because it’s too much, i’ve spent twenty-seven years with my emotions all bottled up and everytime he’s near i want to explode, there’s a part of me that belongs to him and that part is hurting right now, i’d rather get rid of it rather than suffering through it._

instead, he starts crying.

he feels sobs coming out of him, tries to control the tears but finds himself unable to. he tries to be quiet by burying his head between his knees. beverly reaches out tentatively, caresses a hand through his hair comfortingly. he can’t see but he feels the couch moving, ben probably sitting up, strong arms around him, smell of lavander and clean cotton around him.

..

they end up organising a trip to ben’s house in vermont to spend the holidays together.

eddie has started talking to richie again, but refuses to hear his voice. it’s just texts. chats on everyday’s lives, richie sending pictures of something that makes him laugh, eddie complaining about his co-workers. neither of them mentions the infamous call and he’s grateful for it, grateful that richie doesn’t hold it against him, or at least pretends not to.

he meets with mike at the airport, who hugs him tight and pats his back, tanned and glowing, his deep voice comforting him. they take a taxi together to ben’s house, where the others already are. he’s nervous the whole ride, tapping his fingers against his leg in the back seat, leaving to mike the task of making small talk with the driver.

they find them all in the living room once ben has greeted and welcomed them inside. eddie’s heartbeat speeds up as soon as his eyes lands on richie, who’s wearing an obnoxious christmas jumper and is staring at him, grinning.

when it’s richie’s turn to hug him, eddie gets engulfed in his arms, feels his skin burning where richie’s jaw is brushing his cheek. it takes a moment to relax in his touch, to notice the stiffness he’s maintaining, afraid to let himself go too far. he hasn’t seen richie for eight months: when they disentangle from the embrace and sits with the others in the living rooms, around the coffee table—richie on the armrest of the chair next to beverly, eddie on the opposite side of the room, on the sofa between mike and stan—he glances at the other man whenever he can without being noticed. his hair has gotten longer, he has a bit of a stubble as always and for a moment, he can pretend everything’s the same, that this is the richie the way eddie saw him last year: nothing more than a best friend he had known since he was eight.

they fall into the usual, talking and laughing and drinking. audra and patty are there, too, patty’s sweet and gentle but likes to tease stanley and tells them some funny stories about her husband; audra is charming and distant at the same time, but laughs at all of richie’s jokes and steals fond glances at bill.

they get escorted into the dining room and invited to sit around a long, glass table. richie sits next to eddie. eddie’s glad the table is long enough so that they don’t need to touch each other.

richie’s in the middle of imitating some reality tv stars eddie doesn’t know the name of when stan interjects—‘bold of you, the one with a reality tv boyfriend’.

richie looks at him, flashes a smile and says, ‘wrong guy, stan the man. i’m officially single again’.

eddie’s hand stops mid-air from where he was bringing the fork to his mouth. before he can register what he’s saying, he asks ‘when did this happen?’.

richie turns to look at him, smile faded but a bright voice ‘like, two weeks ago’. he winks. ‘no man can hold richie trashmouth tozier down’.

‘i would say it’s the opposite’ eddie replies swiftly, earning a light chuckle from richie. he flashes a glance at stan, who’s watching them over the glass of wine he’s sipping from.

there’s a moment of silence around the table which is suddenly interrupted by audra, who chirps ‘i introduce richie to one of my friends only once and of course he decides to break his heart!’

bill replies, ‘that can’t be worse than the time stanley made a girl who had a crush on him cry’.

the attention of the table changes direction now, focusing on stan, and patty, who’s gaping at him with a twinkle in her eyes.

he doesn’t look at richie for the rest of the dinner.

..

once they’ve cleaned the table and drunk some more and then said their goodnights and shut the door of their respective bedrooms, eddie finds himself unable to sleep. he tosses and turns in the double bed of one of ben’s numerous guest rooms until he realises there’s no way he’s going to fall asleep in the next hours. once he’s looked in his toiletry bag and confirmed his suspicion that he hasn’t brought melatonin with him or any sleeping pill, he decides to descend the stairs to go snoop in ben’s kitchen in the hope of finding some chamomile.

once he’s reached the end of the stairs, he notices that the kitchen’s lights are on.

it doesn’t take much to realize it’s richie. he’s hunched over the aisle, his legs crouched as he’s sitting on a barstool. he’s wearing the same jumper as before, and from where’s standing, eddie can actually see how long his hair has gotten, reaching the end of his neck.

for a brief moment, he ponders the option of just turning around and silently walking back to his room, but it’s like richie senses his presence, because he slightly turns his head to the side and sees eddie from the corner of his eyes.

‘hey’ richie says, turning his whole body to the right to take a better look at him.

‘hey’ eddie replies, stepping into the room. ‘can’t sleep either?’

richie nods. ‘figured i would try to work a bit’ he explains, gesturing at the macbook on the kitchen aisle, screen showing an open pages document.

‘doesn’t seem like it’s going well’ eddie jokes, walking towards the cabinets to start opening all of them.

‘teas are in the last cabinet at your right’ richie interjects, like he’s reading his mind.

he opens the mentioned cabinet and there’s the teas, like richie’s said. eddie wonders whether he’s been there before. he probably has. he rummages through the different kinds of teas, finds camomile in the back. he’s on the verge of asking richie if he wants some when he notices there’s a glass filled with what he assumes is bourbon beside the laptop.

the room is mostly silent while eddie prepares the chamomile tea, the only sounds being richie typing something on the keyboard and the water simmering in the teakettle.

once the black cup he’s taken is full, he takes it into his hands and gets back to the aisle. he sits close to richie, from where he’s sitting at the corner of the aisle.

richie stops typing and looks up.

having richie’s eyes looking at him like this, with no phone in-between, no one around them, no disturbing noise and no other thing to do is something that eddie dreaded. he realizes, though, that he does not feel uncomfortable. there’s no malice behind richie’s gaze. no curiosity, no judgement, just something fond and familiar.

‘is everything okay, eds?’ richie asks, his voice honest and deeper and his eyes still fixed on eddie, who’s focusing on the cup in his hands and shoots brief glances at richie, afraid his eyes say too much.

his mind goes back to what his therapist said to him last thursday.

‘from what i know about you, edward’ she said, ‘you’re a realist. you deal with assessing risks everyday and you have to look at facts and weigh them’. she was silent for a moment, looking at eddie, who just nodded. ‘so everytime you take a decision, you weight and balance all the possibilities and know exactly what the most probable outcome will be. is that correct?’ ‘yes’ ‘however, when it comes to you—and i mean when the decision to take is one that affects you emotionally and has to do with you in relation to other people—instead of making a reasoned assumption based on the facts, you only focus on the negative possibility. so that, when you have to take the decision, you don’t choose reasonably. you choose the safest option. the one which will actually get the least results, but which will keep things _stable_ ’. she looked at eddie from behind her glasses, waiting for him to say something. ‘i guess’ he settled on in the end, ‘i’m just scared of losing the stable things in my life if one thing goes wrong’. she stayed silent for a moment, still staring at eddie. ‘when you got divorced’ she said, ‘did you lose your job?’. he inhaled. ‘no’. he exhaled. ‘did you go bankrupt?’ ‘no’ ‘did you lose your friends?’ ‘no, but—‘ he protests, but found himself unable to continue. there was really no but. ‘think about the sexual experimentation you told me about’ she said. ‘had that gone bad, what would have happened?’. he thought about it for a moment. ‘dissatisfaction, i guess’ he replies. ‘embarrassment, maybe’. she nodded. ‘would have you lost something?’ he inhaled. he exhaled. ‘no’.

he looks at richie now, who’s still staring at him behind his black rimmed glasses, richie who tried calling him everyday when he broke his arm and had to stay home, richie who faced his mother every sunday at four so that eddie could come out and play, richie who stayed at his side while he was bed bound in the scary hospital at derry. he realises, in the cold kitchen at ben’s house, sat less than one meter away from the man he’s in love with, that richie is stable. that, even if he ends up making a fool of himself and richie gets back with andrew, or finds another D-list celebrity to date in l.a., and they don’t talk for weeks, that, even with awkward phone calls, bickering, heated discussions, drunken dials from some bar in hollywood, funny stories about snobby actors, group chat texts, even with distance and avoidance and embarrassment, richie will be there. they will find the way back to each other, find something to joke about and, even if eddie’s chest will ache for months and richie will tiptoe his way around it, the ground under eddie’s feet will stay still. they will remain eddie and richie. richie and eddie.

inhale. ‘richie’. exhale. ‘i’m in love with you’.

he almost stands up and run away back to his room, packs his bag, calls a taxi to the airport to spend the night there waiting for the next flight to new york. instead, he grips at the mug and looks at richie, who’s staring at him, his mouth agape.

there’s a long moment of silence where they’re just looking at each other. eddie breaks it. ‘please say something’

‘is this a prank?’ richie asks, looking around himself. ‘is this a very cruel prank by beverly?’

eddie frowns. ’what?’ inhale. exhale. he disentangles his hands from the mug and stands up. ‘richie. either say something or i’m going to go now’.

he doesn’t expect what richie does next.

instead of answering, richie surges forward from his stool, reaches the back of eddie’s neck with his hand, now only few centimetres awa, and crashes their lips together.

eddie imagined this lots of times, and each time, he though the world would crumble and everything would start spinning. instead, he finds that kissing richie keeps him grounded. he finds that everything around him stands still, that the only thing moving are their tongues, their breath mixing with one another. maybe it’s because he’s so intent on focusing on richie, the light scratch of his stubble against his skin, the taste of alcohol in his mouth, his glasses against his face, that the world around him does not move. maybe it’s his arms reaching behind richie’s back, his nails digging in the other man’s shirt, keeping him still. or maybe it’s just that this is richie, and he’s stable, and he’s there, and they’re not letting go.

it’s eddie the first to separate their lips. their faces are still a few millimetres away. he can feel richie’s breath as if it was his own. richie, who’s looking at him, whose hands are holding on his waist now.

‘i wish thirteen-year old richie could see this’ richie says, while panting.

eddie snorts, ‘asshole’. he pecks him on the lips.

‘no, seriously’ richie replies after another peck. ‘i’ve been in love with you since i saw you back in derry’, another peck, ‘and maybe before that. i think i have never loved anyone the way i loved you at thirteen’.

‘what about andrew?’ eddie asks.

‘what about that girl you fucked?’ richie replies.

he rolls his eyes. ‘it was a guy’ he says. ‘and i just thought of you afterwards’.

richie kisses him again.

..

it’s 82 degrees outside and eddie’s running and he’s sweating and his lungs are burning and his legs are aching. he gradually slows down as soon as he sees his house—his and richie’s house—at the end of the road. he was down with a cold last week and did not get to train.

he enters the house and spots richie sprawled on the couch, phone to his ear, talking to someone—his manager, most likely—loudly. he notices eddie and raises an hand to waive at him. in response, eddie walks towards the couch, crouches down and kisses richie on the lips. richie kisses him back even though eddie’s sweaty.

because that’s how it is now: eddie and richie in l.a., a home in beverly hills together, cuddles in bed before eddie goes to work. drinks with bill, weekly phone calls with stan, morning runs. making out on the couch, watching netflix until they both fall asleep, flashy events they leave too early. richie getting home after shooting, eddie waiting for him to have dinner together, veggie burgers and carrots because he’s trying to get richie to eat healthier. eddie complaining about his interns, richie holding his hand on the table, talking til late in bed, their legs entangled like a spider web, eddie kissing richie on the forehead before he has to leave for work, handjobs in the shower, walks in the park holding hands, paparazzi shots, gripping richie’s arm when the world moves too fast, having someone by your side who’s there, will always be there, who will keep the world stable even when it feels impossible.


End file.
